109. The Highest Bidder (V) (Patreon)

A/N: Why is there a bonus chapter on a Saturday? I’m not sure! I probably should've saved this for tomorrow, but I couldn't help myself. 

Fair warning: This release may push tomorrow’s scheduled chapter to Monday. Depends on if I can crank out a whole 'nother chapter between today and tomorrow. We'll see! 

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The bidding was heating up.

“A bottle of Dragon’s Tears?” Mala scoffed. “Please. I’ll give you one Scale and three drops of Moon’s Essence. Each drop is thrice as potent as the meager elixir my colleague offers.”

She looked flatly at the Finance Minister, then Dorian. “The cauldron is our domain. In this, no-one is our equal. If it is cultivation you seek, the Alchemist’s Guild is the obvious choice.”

Dorian drew a sharp breath. Then he nodded. “Thank you. A strong offer.”

Even now, he was bullshitting—He kept his expression cool and thoughtful.

Inside, he was hopping with joy.

This thing would shoot me straight to peak Profound!

Dorian almost said yes on the spot.

“I’ll give you a Scale, and free reign to do whatever the fuck you want! Take all the Guild’s shit—it’s yours!” roared the Artificing Head. Dorian perked up. Oh?

“My nephew here tells me you’ve got big plans!” Chortling, the Artificing Head gave Martial Elder Kal a friendly slap on the back. Kal looked like h’d been struck by a sledgehammer. His eyes popped, mouth gaping, face a white sheet of horror. There was a great boom, and Dorian saw the force literally ripple up his back, his chest thrust sharply forward, arms thrown back in panic. He was sent face-planting into a dune. When the dust plume settled, only two tree-trunk legs were left aboveground; Kal’s furious bellows were choked by the sands.

“…Oops,” said the Artificing Head. He squinted at his nephew’s thrashing legs. Then he turned back to Dorian, shrugging. “Any-how! Where was I? Don’t tell me! I’ve got it, I’ve got it… ah! Yes!”

He smiled. “You’ve got big plans, don’t you? You want to make a big ol’ business! You want to sell your fancy little sticks! Come with us, and you get to use all our steels, free of charge! Any forge you want—it’s yours! Whatever idea you’ve got, we’ll eat the costs!”

Now Dorian was straight-up salivating. But he had to hold himself back. If things have jumped his far, this fast, how much higher can they go?

He licked his lips. Maybe I can push this.

“Ooh. Intriguing! I’m almost sold on it. I’m a fan of the support. But I wonder—can you go just a little higher on the resources? I’m really quite partial to Scales, you see…”

“Two scales!”

The cry came from Patriarch Ouyang. By the look on his face, he might have torn out his own heart and offered it to Dorian.

“Two scales,” said the Finance Minister, “Plus one million lira.” He cleared his throat, cool as can be. “Enough to fund any venture you’d like. Artificing or otherwise.”

A strange sensation shivered Dorian then. Like he stood atop a very high mountain, and the air was getting thin, and his blood was pumping fast. A tingly light-headedness.

“Two scales, plus one Grand Elixir,” countered the Alchemist Head instantly. “Each year, the topmost Alchemists of our Guild gather to brew one Elixir of the highest grade for thirty days and thirty nights. This is the Grand Elixir. Should you take one…you shall leap to the Earth Realm.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that.”

Dorian hardly had time to process her offer before another voice butted in.

“Two scales, plus we fund your sticks, plus you get a super-powerful artifact!” said the Artificing Head. “Err—the Spear of Yaksha? We still have that fuckin’ thing, don’t we?”

He said it to Kal, who’d only just gotten his head out of the sands. Kal glared at him, coughing. “Of course we have ‘that thing!’” he snapped. “’That ‘thing’ is our family’s heirloom treasure! It’s passed down for fuckin’ generations! My grandpa—your uncle—died protecting that ‘thing’. It’s priceless! You can’t just—“

“Great!” The Artificing Head grinned. “Then you can have that too!”

Kal choked on his own spit.

Then the Oasis Lord cleared his throat. “Two scales, and the Governor’s Palace will provide the resources to raise you to the Earth Realm, and you gain full access to the Zhang Family’s Martial Library—the most extensive in all the Oasis. Perhaps all the Desert. It is a privilege only our Grand Elders have.”

“Piss on that! Who gives two shits ‘bout books when you could rule an empire of steel?” The hotter the Artificing Head got, the more spittle he sprayed, misting the air. He’d gotten so heated that each roar left a tiny rainbow around his mouth.

“I should think my offer is the still obvious choice,” said the Alchemist Head primly. “The journey to Earth is an arduous one, undertaken over decades. Take my offer, and the time you’d save is invaluable.”

“I can think of a value. And it is less than the sum I offered the child.” The Finance Minister would not be left out. He shot Dorian a pointed look. ”Everything my colleagues offer can be bought. Do not be taken by their bait. In this world, money is still king.”

The four bosses glared at one another. It had become a matter of pride. Dorian was positively giggling.

We’re here. We’re at the last part of the plan.

He hadn’t expected to get half this far, to be honest.

Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure what to do.

The offers had all gotten monstrous. Was he really about to jeopardize this by opening his big, fat mouth? He thought for a moment.

Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.

Because while this was all very nice—Dorian liked getting free stuff as much as anyone—what he liked more was being free to use that free stuff. For his own ends, that was; not beholden to the plans of another. It was rather hard to build his own Artificing and Alchemical empire as a slave.

This whole slave business was unsavory. Dorian had always chafed at collars. His runs were always bound by unspoken rules: that they had to be fun, and they had to be done his way. Fun was the whole point! And beating his record in some boring, horrid slog as someone else’s bitch was no fun at all.

Which was all to say that—even though it was only temporary—he’d really prefer to be rid of that slave clause.

Now, after things had gotten this far, maybe he finally had the leverage to say something about it.

This miiiiight not go over well. But today’s been my lucky day! Why not try one last gamble?

“Thank you all, truly,” said Dorian with a smile. “These are all very generous offers. But what I’d really like is a slight variant on my terms of service. I’m imagining something closer, to, say, a retainer than a slave. I’d be tied to your faction, sure, and happy to further your interests—but still free to do my own thing, too. I’d value this as much as a Scale.”

He eyed the group. “So… any takers?”

He knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say.

It was like a frigid gale had swept over the crater. Everywhere he looked were stone faces. Their silence was even stonier.

Uh-oh.

“I said you were clever,” said the Oasis Lord, a soft edge to his voice. A serrated softness. Perhaps I was mistaken. Are you trying to alter our agreement? Now?”

Oops. Time to backtrack just a bit. “Not at all! It’s not a demand. It’s not a requirement. Think of it as merely an option to offer me.”

Dorian gave what he hoped was a winning smile. “I’m simply telling you a preference of mine! That’s all. Should no one take me up on it, very well. But if there are any interested parties….”

Dorian turned his gaze to the Nobles. Take the hint! “I’ll give such an offer special consideration.”

The silence stretched on. Thump-thump-thump went the beatings of Dorian’s heart. Thump-thump-thump. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead with horrid slowness. Nobody was biting. Most of them were carving him up with glares. A few—mostly the Nobles, who had the most to gain, in theory—looked to be mulling it over. They were who Dorian had hoped to rope in with the offer.

But no-one said anything.

Oh, come on! Pretty please?

If he was enslaved, his plans went up in smoke. No Wizard’s Stick revolution. No mass-produced Elixirs. He’d be naught more than an old man’s pawn.

Someone. Anyone!

“I…shall do it!” came a rasping wheeze.

Yes! Dorian sagged with relief. But where had it come from?

The Nobles looked to one another, confused. So did the Guild Heads. There had been a sound. That much was undeniable. But who?

It seemed to have come from Patriarch Ouyang, but the voice was much shriller, reedier. Even Ouyang seemed baffled. He glanced around him. Then he realized, horrified, that he was looking in the wrong place. He looked down.

One withered old arm was wriggling out from under his plump behind. Beside that arm, gasping wetly for air, was a withered old head.

Dorian blinked. Patriarch Cai! I totally forgot he existed! Dorian hadn’t seen the man since he tried picking a fistfight with Patriarch Ouyang in the ruckus earlier—and promptly got sat on. He vanished like a mountaineer caught in an avalanche. Dorian sort of assumed that had been the end of him.

But against all odds, he’d dug his way out!

“One…scale!” wheezed the Patriarch, eyes veined with red. It took everything out of him just to say the words. “And you shall be given the same rights… as a Chosen of our clan! Our best elixirs! Manuals! Treasures!”

Dorian breathed out. “Ooh. I like the sound of that.”

Patriarch Ouyang frowned. “Shut up.” He shifted his weight. Patriarch Cai’s eyes bulged. For an instant, his mouth curved into a valiant, defiant snarl, the sort one would find on a statue of a hero of myth. His expression seemed to say, No. This is not how I go out. Not today, villain! I will not go quietly into the night! I shall fight with all I’ve got! Today shall be my Independence Day! I—

That was all it managed before it, too, vanished from view once more.

A beat. Then Patriarch Fang sighed. “Ah, damn it all. So be it. I offer what our erstwhile friend Cai offered. I shall also tend to your lodging, and to the lodging of whoever else you wish to bring along.”

Patriarch Ouyang kneaded his head, groaning. “Bah! Argh... if this is the price of a Hero, fine! I offer what Fang said, plus one hundred thousand Lira. But that's as far as I can go.”

“I—I’ll give you what he said, too!” piped up Matriarch Shun. “And… bridges! All the bridges you want. And my daughter’s hand in marriage! She’s got a face like a brick left out in the sun too long, true, but she’s real good with her hands!” It didn’t seem like she knew what she was saying. She just didn’t want to be left out.

The Oasis Lord looked quite miffed at this sudden burst of competition.

“Perhaps Matriarch Shun was right,” snarled the Lord. “You have grown far too bold, Io Rust. It was an act of extreme generosity to agree to your terms. Is this is how you reward me? Do you call this fair?”

A gruff voice cut in. “Ha!”

It was the Artificing Head. He grinned craggy tombstone teeth at the Oasis Lord. “I see how it is. You agreed to his plan ‘cause you thought you already won! It was between you and money-grubber over there from the start. The boy throws the rest of us a stick—and now you cry unfair? Get the fuck outta here!”

Dorian could’ve kissed the man.

The Artificing Head rounded on Dorian. “Y’know what? I like your spirit, you little rascal. I’ll throw you back a stick. Scratch the slave shit. New offer. We’ll fund your Wizard’s Stick. You get Two Scales. Plus—you’ll work under me as my apprentice. Directly. And you get all the rights this—“

Wait. Wait. Wait. Dorian froze. Did I hear right? Did he say the word apprentice?! 

The Head, meanwhile, was busy grimacing at Kal. “What’s the word? Give me a word. Something big. Important-sounding.”

“Uh,” Kal frowned back. “Distinguished?”

“That’s right!” He pointed a meaty finger to the heavens. “You get all the rights of this distinguished title! Our best metals. Our best elixirs. Our best Spirit Stones. We’ll raise you like the Guild’s own fuckin’ son. During the day you’re by my side. The rest, you go do your shit.”

Dorian felt faint. Not even in his wildest hopes had he expected to get this kind of deal. It didn’t feel at all real.

The Oasis Lord would never have given it. Neither would the Finance Minister, nor the Alchemist Head. They were too shrewd for that. It took a simple man, with simple whims, to throw him something as stupidly generous as this. His mouth was dry. His tongue felt like a thick wad of cotton. 

Would he really go from nearly a slave to one of the most favored sons of the Oasis, in one stroke? It seemed too good to be true. Most of today was feeling that way.

The last time he had this feeling, he nearly died to a burst of hot pink air. And then nearly died again at the hands of Bin Heilong and his ornery lieutenants.

His fortunes had reversed, and un-reversed, and reversed again so many times in the span of a few hours that he was almost apprehensive. Is there some kind of cosmic catch? Some twist of Fate? Surely not… right?

The Artificing Head looked him square in the eyes. “Don’t get greedy, now! No negotiations. This is as good as it gets. My final offer, take it or leave it. What do you say, kid?”